All Women Are Mary
by KhamanV
Summary: A chance encounter in London brings Ben Linus into contact with someone whose occupation is as arguably questionable as his. A bit different than what I usually write, yes - criticism is more than welcome, as always.
1. London

_All Women Are Mary_

_"Men do not change, they unmask themselves." ~ Madame de Staël_

1. _London._

His name is Benjamin Linus, and he is in London. The city seems to suit him, or perhaps he suits it. Complementary pair – both wear a veil of fog and checkered history. It was the gloaming hour, where the sun had given way to a soft shade of cobalt blue. Stars peeked out among hazy clouds, the last remnants of an otherwise rainy day.

The view from the Tower Bridge is spectacular on any occasion, though that night he barely saw it from behind his thoughts. Pedestrians moved back and forth, lost in their own worlds and own stories. He had passed up the high walkway in favor of open air and the smell of old water, the financial district and Widmore's throne of power far behind him. He was not thinking on that, either, though he knew he ought. Instead, his gaze flickered along choppy water, the soft lapping sound of it lost against the wilder rushes of traffic. His thoughts flickered the same, dancing around a topic that he did not seriously contemplate (or so he told himself), and yet courted out of a vague curiosity. His face was pale, eyes heavy-lidded and unstaring for once, and he leaned against the rail with a weight that belied his small form.

He did not notice the woman who watched him from a few yards away, leaned against a stretch of rail herself. Until she moved closer – within some subconsciously recognized range of threat – and then he did, facing her with eyes now wholly alert. She stopped, then nodded to him with a little smile. "I'm sorry, didn't mean to startle you." Her voice was American enough, midwestern even, although she had picked up a little of a northern European sound. He remained on edge.

"Something I can do for you?" he said, his tone brisk.

She laughed. "Probably not. I was just wondering what was so interesting about the river. You've been looking at it for quite a while." She tilted her head. "Or were you? Heavy thoughts, maybe. Of which are clearly not my business."

"Clearly not."

"I just..." She shrugged. "I thought for a moment there that you were going to throw yourself off."

He didn't say anything to that, though his mouth tightened very slightly.

"Maybe I was wrong. Thought I'd check, you know. Not let anyone's vacation get ruined. Much less yours." She put her red-gloved hands on the rail and pushed herself away from it a little, a light, perhaps nervous, bounce that was followed by a little chuckle.

"I'm here on business." Apropos of nothing. He wasn't quite sure why he said it, or why he hadn't yet denied her assumption. It was just a thought, after all. He wasn't actually going to do it, of course. Just a thought game. His mouth tightened further.

"So am I!" She beamed at him. "I'll bet it's a rather different business, though."

"Safe guess." He turned away and looked at the river again. "If that's all, I'm fine. Pleasure to meet you, have a nice trip."

"Nicer than yours, by the sound of it. Look – um. I think we got off on the wrong foot here, I'm not trying to get in your face-"

"You haven't. Enjoy London."

She exhaled her breath in a soft puff of exasperation.

"What?" His own irritation sharpened the query.

"You want to get a drink?"

He looked at her, disbelief crinkling the side of his face. "What for?"

She shrugged. "So I can be sure you don't drop off the moment I leave."

"Oh, for-!" He uttered a laugh still marked by disbelief and distrust, a short, brusque sound like knuckles on wood. "Fine. Fine, a drink, I'll write out a note promising I'm not going to drown myself and then everyone can have a nice evening. For the love of..." Instinctively, he shoved his hands in his pockets, making sure his baton rested inside his long coat. What else would someone ask for _his _company for but to be a threat?

"I'll take you up on the note. I will. I'll have it framed."

"Put it in with your collection, I'm sure. Guardian angel of the Thames or whatever you want."

She laughed at him. "Come on. Pick a place, I don't care."

* * *

The Dove was widely known for its diminutive bar, however finding a quiet nook in its much larger dining area proved simple. It was not the height of tourist season, and further, Ben had a way with forcing his preferences without leaving much offense behind. They were served quickly despite the lateness of the hour, a pair of dark ales left in the wake of a polite young man who still seemed baffled by the gentle, friendly pressure of Ben's manner.

"Nice trick; I wish I could use that attitude on auto mechanics." She sounded admiring.

"Always rent a car, then it's someone else's problem. Easy." He took a long sip of the ale, waiting for her to do the same so that he could examine her without being caught in a stare. Finally she did, after an amused noise at his words. Dark hair, lightly olive skin. Middle age. Oval face, upturned nose. Not a perfect, classic beauty, but she knew what she had to work with and made do, turning simpler features into something clean and nearly regal. Her hair was knotted back and pinned, with tendrils left to artfully escape and frame. A Greek look. Professional, with expensive, well-kept clothes. A string of tiny pearls and silver links. What business? Too much humor for a banker. "What's your name?"

"Who cares?" She shrugged.

"I do, actually. I don't sit around and let unknown, unnamed people drift close. Get shot like that."

"So, you're a paranoid." She set her ale down, her lips quirking at him. "The reverse for me. Most people I meet, it's only for a little while and they're more comfortable that way. More privacy."

Ah. Of course. It would figure with his luck. If it wasn't a Widmore plant, it would be this. His expression didn't change.

She smiled at him, a lopsided, slightly rueful quirk. "Thanks for not immediately blurting it out."

"That'd be rude." He dropped his gaze and took another drink of his ale. Of course. He felt privately offended though, angry. Of course. Nobody ever spoke to him without wanting something out of it.

Her brow furrowed a little, wrinkling her smooth face. "I don't proposition as a rule. Not the nature of my business, and I'm sorry to bring it up so fast. But at the same time, if the subject came up later, you'd make the assumption even worse and get angry about it." She flicked her eyes towards the door, looking distant. "Or at least that's how it usually goes. Get one whiff of the job and everyone _assumes. _Makes having a normal conversation a real bitch, let me tell you."

"Mm."

"...And here's another one in the dumpster. Fine, I'll pay for the drinks. Have a better one." She began to push herself away from the table, snapping up her purse. Her eyes were darkened.

A flash of guilt at her obvious and sudden distress. "Wait."

She looked at him and shrugged. "What for?"

He paused a moment, then tried to make his tone lighter. "I think we got off on the wrong foot here." A shrug, then more serious. "I do, as it happens, know a little bit about normal conversations never quite going well."

She hovered a moment, caught in that state of not quite sitting, not quite standing. The server poked his head around a corner to be sure everything was all right, then disappeared again. Then, reluctantly, she settled back down into her seat. She watched him for a moment, silently. "I'm Meredith."

"Benjamin. Ben. Doesn't matter." Awkward. Curiosity struck. "If you don't pro – rude again." He shut up and drank more ale.

She quirked another little smile. "Specifically, I'm a madam. My main office is in the Netherlands, which never seems to surprise anyone. Can't fathom why. _Maison close_, if you know the term, and we abide by the efforts and suggestions of _De Rode Draad._"

"Sorry?"

"Ex-workers, they're trying to, well, clean matters up a bit. There's some absolutely shameful bastards in the business, and it makes it much harder for anyone legitimate or respectful of the profession."

"Ah."

"This is the point in the conversation someone usually brings up the temples of Ishtar and some sort of riff on the historical holiness of sex work, but nobody ever brings up the Yankees for some reason." She examined his blank expression. "Random, I know. I'm sorry, I ramble. I don't get many of these 'normal' talks. As I said. Another ale?"

"Definitely. What else have I missed, assuming this was your usual stereotypical conversation on the topic?"

She beckoned for the waiter, who took the hint and went to pull the keg. "Um... 'how did I get into the business?' 'Did I do a paper on feminist history in college?' and 'How much do you charge?'"

"I think I'll skip all that. It's not my business, is it?"

"No – well, maybe the last if that was your thing - but some men comfort themselves by saying how _empowered _I am for knowing the history. While I'm trying to – well. Whatever makes them happy. Which is, after all, the point. You'd think."

He thought for a while, fiddling absently with his mug. "Is it really happiness they're going to a prostitute for?"

Naturally, with the timing instilled in every good staffer of eateries the world over, the waiter came by with more ales right then and lingered for a moment, rather obviously listening.

"Now that's a good question! I think that's what they tell themselves."

"But you don't agree."

"Nope." Meredith beamed up at the young man. "'Mary,' take a right when you face the Oude Kerk, we take all international cards and, of course, cash. Thanks for the ale, you can go now."

He made an embarrassed squeak, snagged the empty mugs, then left. Ben ran a hand over his face.

"Weird night, huh?"

"I tend to end up in strange situations with a regularity that would shock you, but yes, actually, this night is being rather special."

"And here I am talking about me. Let's talk about you."

"Let's not."

"Oh, come on. Might be fun."

"'Fun' implies board games, amusement parks, and children. Very little about my life is 'fun.'"

"You don't strike me as a party animal, no."

He stared blankly at her. "Are you this irreverent during your business?"

"Only if I think the client would enjoy it. Roleplay and all that."

"God."

"I think He'd be a bottom. Change it up a bit."

"Dear God." He began to laugh, the utter absurdism of the conversation striking him. There was an element of enjoyment at for once having a conversation where he could never quite seem to have the upper hand. It was relaxing, in a curious way. There was nothing to win, and nothing at stake. Except perhaps a little dignity, but the ale left that hazy.

"You're Catholic, aren't you?"

"I- no. Not really."

"Damn. I was pretty sure. You've got that vaguely morose, glib, guilty attitude down pat. Do you know how many Catholics I see a year? Don't answer that, it's rhetorical, and I was trying to change the topic."

"Um."

"That said, it's a lot." Meredith took a long sip of ale, then settled into her chair comfortably. "Good ale."

"Yes. It is." He seized on a tactical thought, something to deter the topic away from himself. "I think they're trying to close, actually."

"So they are." She looked around, noted tables being bused and left empty. "You said you were on business."

"Yes. I'll be traveling for a while, I'm afraid."

"Tell you what, a little game. Going around Europe?"

"For now."

"Okay. First – you owe me that note." He laughed again and she flicked a finger at him, gesturing. "Come on, I said I'd force it. Second – fine, I don't know what you were doing up on the bridge-"

"I was not going to kill myself." Ben pulled a clean napkin from the bottom of a short pile on the table while digging a pen out from his coat. _I solemnly swear that on this day in London of the year 2007, I am not going to drown, jump into a subway path, shoot myself, nor otherwise engage in some fatal self-inflicted method not described here._ He finished by scrawling a looping version of his first name across the bottom corner. He clicked the pen and pushed the napkin across the table towards Meredith, who took it.

"That's legally binding, Ben. Well, anyway. Pick a city. I'll meet you there."

_"Why?"_

"Why not? Business is boring. Maybe some conversation to look forward to might make it a bit more fun."

"I-" He contemplated. What was his other company, Jarrah? His resistance gave slightly at the comparison. "Maybe."

"Pick a city. And not Paris, everyone picks that one. This is not a Brando movie. Or Florence."

"I like Florence." His voice sounded defensive.

"So did Hannibal Lecter. They put that on my last inflight movie, can you believe it?" She made an exaggerated, dramatic shudder.

"I have more hair than Lecter."

"He makes a joke!" She grinned at him, delighted. "Where? Italy, Spain, Austria..."

Benjamin looked at her for a moment, noticing again her hair and olive skin. Connections came together in his mind, random thoughts of temptation, history, literature, and myth. "Heraklion."

"Greece?" She reared her head back a little, thinking. "That works. Heraklion."

"I'll look for you at the Morosini. One week from tonight. Twilight." Ben took what control he could and rose to leave. "Good night," he said, and he did not look back. Though after he passed through the door of the little pub and into the dark, the question finally occurred to him – what had _she _been doing standing around on the bridge?


	2. Heraklion

_2. Heraklion_

Perhaps to both their surprise, Ben was indeed to be found in Greece at the appointed time and place. The four lions of the great fountain sputtered steadily, fed by underground ducts, regal stone eyes observing a square where once both Doge and drudge carried on their business. Much like their encounter in London, he was lost in thought, observing the stone amidst tourist flashes of light, when Meredith found him.

"You've been here before, I take it."

Ben looked away from the glorious carving to look at her. "Greece, yes. Not here. Never been. Yourself?"

"No. Some of Crete, long time ago. Flown here on... well, business." A little shrug. "Suppose that's a side benefit. I've done a lot of travel. Still do."

"A lot. Does any place feel like home?"

She looked at him abruptly, startled by the question. "Well, Amsterdam, I suppose..."

"That's your business, not necessarily your home."

"We're off to an astute start." Her reply came out sharper than she meant and she softened it with a wry smile.

"Never mind, then." His lips pursed.

"You're in quite the mood."

"Business," he replied shortly. He shook his head. "Sorry. Yes. I have an associate I've been dealing with."

"Not your favorite person, I'm guessing." She crossed her arms and stood next to him, examining the fountain with a clinical eye.

"For a... variety of reasons. To be fair, he would say much the same about me." He shrugged. "But that's the nature of things. Drink?"

"Excellent idea."

* * *

Meredith finished her glass of wine and set the empty flute down with a soft _clink! _A waiter glided by and deftly replaced it with a fresh one. With a flip of her head, the neat ponytail switched shoulders. "I'll be honest, I really didn't expect you to show up. I was surprised when I got off the ferry and spotted you right away."

"I had time, was relatively local, harms nothing." In truth, Ben had considered it (agonized) from several different angles, most of them concluding that he shouldn't bother and that it was either a waste of time or a risk he didn't need. The final contemplation had born the stamp of a thousand wise old philosophers who had summarized their wisdom into the simple phrase _fuck it, why not? _It was not lost on him that this was the same philosophy used by the frequently undereducated and drunk men that saw their exploits (if they survived) end up on Youtube.

That and funny videos of cats. Off island society was not entirely lost on him. He did prefer to ignore much of it when he could, however.

"Damned by faint praise. Nearly edged out by subtitled sitcom reruns on the hotel cable." She saluted him with her glass and drank half of it.

"I didn't mean it like that." His face crinkled, a surprisingly childish expression of hurt. "I just... I don't wander off and do things aimlessly very often."

"You didn't upset me. I thought it was funny." Meredith gave him a reassuring smile, going so far as to reach across the table and pat his arm. He tried not to recoil at the surprise contact, but a wince slid by despite him. She paused, but drew back without remarking on it.

"So, business sucks, you hate your coworkers... sounds relatively normal, really."

"Business is always mundane to the people directly involved."

"But what do you do?"

He looked down at the table, not meeting her eyes. He swirled wine around his glass. It would be easy to lie, preferential even. His credentials bore the Mittelos brand. "I've been thinking about that. Everyone does the same thing, really. We sell ourselves out for some cause we think will fulfill us in some way."

"So, not a cubicle farm." He glanced up at the sardonic tone. "Hey, I've heard the 'we're all whores' thing before, too." She shrugged. "It's a philosophy, not an inaccurate one, but it's also generic as hell. I had some kid – no shit, true story – send me a copy of her thesis for her grad philosophy course to get some extra gravitas on it. A real hooker to weigh in on how we all sell out to God Money or whatever."

He was quiet for a long time, a little bruised in the intellectual ego, but he saw the point. Finally: "Did she get a decent grade?"

That drew a real laugh and he felt slightly better. "She did, actually, after I tried to be very gentle and suggest she might want to rework her theme a bit." She closed her eyes and drooped her head a little. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to poke holes in every sailboat here. I try to get people to talk about themselves because I get tired of retreading the same things. I know – because you're not a client – that you're being polite and thoughtful, but we get it all the time from guys who think they're trying to connect with us. The ones that want to. After a while, the ones that don't talk are better. I'm more interested in other people's stories. It's a defensive thing."

"I can't... I don't really want to talk about what I do." That didn't feel right, either. He sighed. "It makes no sense out of context in a rational world and it has the side effect of potentially causing you trouble."

She looked at him curiously. "I don't care about trouble. Try this one, then – what would an observer describe what it is you do?"

His mouth quirked in deliberate self-awareness. "Professional asshole."

She stared at him for a moment, then lost herself in a wild giggle. "Come on, seriously?"

"It makes more sense than 'vaguely dictatorial gopher of an unseen boss.'" He drawled the words, surprised in himself for saying it.

"Still just sounds like you work for a CEO that's on vacation all the time. Bitter about it?"

"God, you could say." He finished his wine and leaned in. "It's like this, I do what I do because I'm told to, or I interpret orders as best as I can, never quite knowing if I'm doing it right or wrong because I never get word back. Ever. I've never even seen the son of a bitch." The words came out with a sudden heat and he flushed, sitting back. The waiter came by and gave him a new glass. His fourth. The _fuck it _voice would be singing Irish pub songs before too long while the more rational faction of his brain was going to be going home with a sick hangover and a warm towel.

"So, why not just quit?" She gestured expansively. "Tell whatever supervisors you do have hanging around to shove it, take your severance and get going?"

Ben's mouth opened, then closed again. Another curiously childish expression passed across his face. He looked lost._ Abandoned child_ flashed across Meredith's mind and her jaw tensed in sympathy. "I can't. Wait, that's too simple." The forlorn look remained. "Sometimes we do things because we hope at the end that someone will say one kind thing. Like we're willing to tear ourselves up for one moment of approval so we'll do anything to get there. Like we want... love?

"Does that make any sense to you?" He tilted his head and looked at her, blue eyes narrowed in personal contemplation.

She looked back at him, her face sober, understanding, and more than a little sad. "Honey, I'm a _whore."_


	3. Traveling

_3. Traveling_

They played the game off and on for several weeks. In Cologne, they met at the _Rudolfplatz _where she bought shoes and German wines and had them shipped while they argued the virtues and sins of religious influence throughout the region. She held deep-seated issues with the locally ingrained attitudes of guilt, while he defended the growth of architecture and thematic artistry. They both agreed that the eventual spread of education and historical collection was a firm win, however.

They veered from the topics of her work and his duty where possible, talking at angles around themselves. In Turkey, it was faith, in Vienna it was sin, in Luxembourg it was the global economy.

He left Italy abruptly without ever explaining why, missed the next meet in Catalonia, but somehow caught up to her in Portugal. Meredith didn't ask how he'd managed it, suspecting that on some level she didn't want to know. Ben looked weary, however. Tired in a way she had not seen since that night in London. His eyes were heavy once more, and his face was drawn.

She chose to not remark on it, instead keeping them both well-supplied with sangria on the balcony of a little villa they had invaded. She was used to him ducking certain kinds of questions.

"So, why did you pick Heraklion?"

"Hm?" Ben refocused his eyes; he had been looking over her shoulder at nothing for several moments. "Oh. Yes."

She waited patiently for him to get on the next shuttle back to Earth.

"I was thinking of Kazantzakis."

Blank expression. The jug of sangria waited in her hand.

"He wrote _The Last Temptation of Christ. _I was thinking of that. Other things, too, of course, but it led to that."

"...I know. 'All women are Mary.'" She put the jug down, staring off thoughtfully. "I don't know why I didn't guess. It's why I named my house 'Mary.'"

"The Magdalene likely wasn't a pros-"

"She was probably conflated with other women, common names. I know. But I liked that line, even if it came from Satan. Because we are, I guess. Another generic philosophical babble, but so apt for what I do. Mothers, sisters, children, grandmothers... whores. It's all the same person sometimes. And sometimes whores stand in for what someone else needs."

"Mothers?" The word was flat.

"Some piece of that, maybe. They stay the night afterward, some of them. They'll cry. Those ones, I think so. Some sleep better. Their faces change when they sleep, and those ones come back. They look better. Then they go away. People are always looking for something."

"Looking for Mary."

"Well, I guess. A way through whatever's bothering them. Like I say, lotta Catholics." She brushed it off with a laugh. He was still looking at her with that strange, flat expression. "Are you all right?"

"No. Doesn't matter. I think too much out here."

She took a risk. "What happened in Italy?" Knew it was a mistake from the sharpness that entered his eyes. Diverged. "What are _you _looking for?" That softened him.

"I- I don't know. A moment's peace." A bent little smile. "A normal conversation."

"I kind of screwed that one up, then. Nothing about any of this has been normal."

"I haven't minded."

"A moment's peace is easier for me to arrange, good night's sleep, a little relaxation." She shrugged, watched the subtext fly right by him. Grinned. Wisps of dark hair framed her smile.

"What?"

"You've never been propositioned before." It wasn't a question.

"I-" He stopped, befuddled. "I thought you said you don't."

"As a rule. I get to break my own rules, and I wasn't bringing it up as part of my business."

He mouthed an 'oh,' then looked away. "No. Please don't take offense, but no." He glanced back before she finished parting her lips. "And before you do, no cracks about Catholic priests. I'm _not._"

"Dickhead invisible CEO guy demands chastity? Hmm."

He stopped himself before dropping yet another half-formed and confused sentence fragment consisting of single vowels. "It isn't that."

"Outdone by subtitled sitcom reruns once more."

He swore, a sudden outburst of verbal violence and she jerked back a little. "Stop being obtuse, it isn't that at all. Call it paranoia; you did once, it'll do now."

"Birth control's really improved in the last few decades."

"Oh my... for... _ablaaaagh!_"

"God, I love doing that to you. Am I right in guessing that not many get away with it?"

He stared at her, eyes a hot, piercing blue. She knew the difference between real anger and trapped embarassment and her face was impish.

_"All riiiight!"_

* * *

When he finally left, near midnight, Meredith suspected he would suggest no further city in which to meet. She had pushed on some nigh-untouchable boundary of his, and that would be more than enough risk for him. She nodded to herself when this was proven true, and watched him walk down the stone-cobbled path away from the villa. Unable to resist pushing once more, she called his name down to him.

To her surprise, it paused him, and he looked back. "You know where I work if you want to find me. For conversation. Or-" She shrugged. "Whatever. Good luck out there."

He blinked up at her, inclined his head very slightly, and disappeared.


	4. Amsterdam

_4. Amsterdam_

Winter in the Netherlands was cool but seldom frozen. It increased certain traffics, made people cling close to one another, left ornate little patterns of fog and ice upon windows. It glazed the remaining red lights and softened the garish gleam.

'Mary' was never lit by red. Her external lights gleamed a soft blue, matching the gloaming sky as her proprietor preferred. It was a narrow building, but built quite high. Each floor had many windows, and they were all gently swathed in opaque curtains and ornate, curling iron. There were few ways a passerby could guess its business, and it did well enough that it did not need to advertise garishly. It was a closed house, as the French termed it, but Meredith kept it a safe one. As best she could. Benjamin Linus would have approved of her history and tactics, had they ever discussed business.

He himself stood on the path before it, his face worried and his demeanor fidgety. In this, he resembled many a john that had stood there before, though he would have protested the comparison. In his mind, it was not what he was there for. In days, he would have to go to Moscow and pull a trigger of an entirely different sort. There was a dread to it he did not understand, a buried fear of Jarrah_ (I've only reminded him how to kill without mercy)_, and he told himself he wanted only to see a friendly face. Only that much.

Mary. Mother. Prostitute. Magdalene.

Meredith. He guessed she resided on the top floor, and when he finally built the courage to go inside and ask after her, he found that he was right.

* * *

"I think in every occasion I've met you, I haven't expected it for some reason." She finished pouring the thick red wine and handed it over to where he sat on a soft burgundy couch. "Certainly not here. Not after the last time I saw you. It's been, what?" She pretended to think, though she knew instantly. "A little over three months?"

"That long, yes." He looked tense, and she had enough instinct to know it wasn't all his surroundings. But a little. A subtle code to her staff when she had gone down to greet him ensured she would not be disturbed. If Ben suspected that sort of tactic, he was polite enough to not remark on it. "I'll be looking into a few things soon, trying to go... home, I suppose. Where I work."

"Same thing or no?"

"Is this home? You never answered."

She shrugged a little, always watching him carefully. He was in a nervous, touchy state and she did not want to make it worse for him with a poorly chosen word. Delicate. It was not unusual for some of her clients – and then she reminded herself that he was not one. Not really. She had invited him, an enormous difference. "Sometimes it is. Depends on how I feel. Lately it has been. It's felt more like home than it has in a long time."

"That's good. Something like that, then, but reversed. I'm not sure it is home anymore, but it was. For a very long time." He glanced down at the wine, then set it down untouched. "No, I can't change my mind about it. It is what it is."

"What changed to make it not home anymore?"

He closed his eyes. "I lost a great many... _things,_ for lack of a better word." Breath hissed. The thought of a young girl passed through him. "That meant something to me. There's people that wouldn't believe me to hear that, but it's true. Without them... I don't know what's there for me anymore. I might try to take it back, but. I don't know. It may not work, but I'll try."

He opened them again and looked at her. Once again, she was taken with that forlorn 'little boy lost' sense he exuded when not purely on his defensive. "I've never had anything else."

"Everything we think we have are just illusions." Meredith shrugged. "Here, I can be more open about that. It's a lie, what we sell, but for a moment people believe it's true. Need to, sometimes."

"I know about lies." No bitterness. Just still that sad, softly hissing tone.

"What do you want?"

"Peace." There were other words. He thought them, echoes of his moments outside, but did not say them. Names. People that were gone, people he knew he could never have. There was another word, too, that shaped what he felt but he'd die before he said that one – _loneliness._

Again, in this, he was like many clients of such a place and again, he would have resented the hearing of it.

Meredith put a hand out to him as she got up from her chair. "Come on. You can rest, and then you'll go."

It took a long moment before he could, but he placed his hand in hers. The fingers were warm and trembling.

* * *

Benjamin was silent; it did not disturb her, but she worried about him. He never spoke during undressing, didn't make a sound when his hand touched her bare hip as they lay. Just that same lost look and he would not close his eyes. Meredith wanted to ask him if he feared she would vanish, but something about that look made her wonder about the answer. She kissed him when he moved above her, trying awkwardly to find himself his right place, and the pause the kiss gave him let her shift subtly to help him. He lacked experience to be sure, but she would make no guess as to whether he was inexperienced entirely. Not her concern. Still no sound, not as he lowered and moved close against her. She pressed her hips to his, again helping, guiding, and at that, the wall of empty breath broke and he hissed a soft, startled sigh.

It did not last long like that; romance novels aside, it seldom does. Only a little while of slow, awkward movement ending in that unguarded full tremble. She knew he would fret on that, like he was doing her harm with his inability to last, but didn't worry. The night was early, and in certain things many men stayed young. He had been alone quite some time. She thought she could smell it in his sweat, but that was only a fancy. She knew she was right.

He rested for a few, eyes still open, brow furrowed. A moment's impulse let her reach to try and smooth it with her fingers. The wrinkle resisted, even as she touched his easily tousled hair. "You're fine. Relax. You're safe." Something flickered across his face at that, then released. His body settled a little under the clean linen – no silk, why be so garish and cliché? - and for a moment, his eyes shut. His mouth moved, tightening and loosening, fear and comfort. The fear surprised her, but she kept it from her face. Worry passed through, though. What sort of life had he had to be like this? She had suspicions, but settled for likely never knowing.

Very gently, she pressed against him, turning him onto his back. Ben resisted at first, no doubt his paranoia, the vulnerability of the pose, giving him pause. She didn't relent, giving him a small kiss and another touch of comfort to his face. A tremble, he gave in, and fell back.

There was less silence in her action. From above, she could adjust what they did and at what speed. There was little for him to control and at that also he resisted at first, but soon gave in at the sense of pleasure that took over. Soft gasps came from him, and once her name. That charmed her. Few said that much, acknowledged her for_ her_ and not their fantasy that they had paid for. His hands fell to her hips and held, and sometimes drew up, languidly, to caress breasts gently or pull her closer to him. Warm hands, she remained surprised at that. Warm and soft. As they made love, she found some real enjoyment in it and did not overplay what she felt. Honesty. For once, she paid a man with that and not the illusion.

They dozed a while, and then she let him pull close once more. Again him above, and now he lasted a while. Still no grand fantasy, but real and with less fear. Soft breath, a gentle moan into her neck. His face was open to her, but as a courtesy, she did not look too close. Still slow, but more from growing weariness and a sense of wanting to make it last. There would be no more. Meredith wouldn't permit that much. He wasn't there to stay, and at that, there was a little bit of regret.

* * *

"You're not Valmont, but you don't need to be." Meredith gave him a wry smile as he finished buttoning a pale blue shirt.

"Please don't tell me you fancy yourself a Merteuil."

"Not a chance. But I'd _love _to grow up to be her. Well. Maybe without that bit at the end." She crossed her arms behind her head and stretched a little. She was still naked under the sheets. Little perks of the job, pick your own wakeup call.

He looked up from a stray button that fought against his fingers and gave her a droll look. "Should hope. She loses her looks at the end of the book."

"We have better surgeons now. I can fake it."

Ben picked up his suit jacket and shoved a disregarded tie roughly into a pocket as he began to pull it on. "There's a..." The jacket balked around an elbow and he paused to shrug himself the rest of the way in. "Question I always meant to ask. If it won't break the mood."

Meredith rolled onto her side and rested her chin in her hand. "What's that?"

"The Tower Bridge. What were _you _doing up there for so long?"

"Oh." Her look fell and Ben cocked his head. The brow furrowed once more. She looked back up at him and gave a short little chuckle. "That."

Meredith pulled herself halfway from the bed and plucked an old green book from a tabletop. Within it was a remarkably well-kept napkin. He could still see his name scrawled along its bottom. Next, she pulled a pen out and scrawled _Mary _underneath his.

"It's... actually my real name." She gave him a sheepish grin. "The other reason I named the place. You should keep this now."

"I don't understand," he said, although he thought he did. His expression curled into one of hurt shock.

"You see, I _was_." She reached out to him. Numbly, he gave his hand. She squeezed it, marking the warmth to remember, then put the napkin into his palm and let it go. "But I'm okay now. I'm home. I had a little game, a little fun, got some perspective. Hope you did, too. Take care of yourself, Benjamin. Please. Even if other people don't want you to, I don't care. I don't have their perspective." She smiled up at him. "Now get lost."

Still shocked, he bent and brushed one last kiss across her forehead. Then he was gone.

He never returned. He'd found something he was looking for. At least its illusion. For a little while.

It was, after all, her stock and trade.


End file.
